


Ascension

by SpellCleaver



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Gen, Luke and Leia are not related, No Twins, POV First Person, Past Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Star Wars Big Bang 2020, very typical fantasy but i had so much fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:27:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23983060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpellCleaver/pseuds/SpellCleaver
Summary: Ten years after the coup against his mother, Sorcerer-Prince Luke Naberrie is hiding in the court of neighbouring Alderaan, as Princess Leia's companion, advisor and protector.But Naboo has expanded into a continental empire under its new leadership -- and when they offer Alderaan the chance to negotiate a peace treaty that protects their borders, they have no choice but to accept.Even if it threatens the secrecy that has kept Luke alive for so long when Darth Vader comes to call.
Relationships: Firmus Piett & Darth Vader, Leia Organa & Luke Skywalker, Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Darth Vader, Obi-Wan Kenobi & Luke Skywalker
Comments: 38
Kudos: 192
Collections: Star Wars Big Bang 2020





	1. The Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Happy May the Fourth!
> 
> This fic was written as a part of the 2020 Star Wars Big Bang. Many thanks to treescape for betaing and happygiraffe for [the art!](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/swbb2020/works/23997211) :D
> 
> A few things to mention about this fic:  
> Story-wise, I use Naboo as the adjective form of Naboo, the way Alderaanian is the adjective form of Alderaan, and Luke and Leia are not siblings in this AU.  
> Writing-wise, this was my first time experimenting with first person present tense in years, and also, both chapters tell the same story, just from different points of view.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and May the Fourth be with you!

**.**

**Luke**

**.**

I tug at the hem of my shirt and try not to look too nervous. As usual, Leia's cackle tells me that my attempt is _completely_ in vain, so I just force my lips into a fond smile, rather than an anxious frown.

"You look great," Leia reminds me—not _forcefully_ but with a weight of command and a laugh that takes any sting or offence out of it. She turns in her seat at the dressing table and her eyes move to meet mine in the mirror.

Despite myself, my forced smile shifts to something a little more genuine. I lift the hairbrush from the dressing table and run it through her hair, still soft and freshly-washed.

She doesn't speak until I start plaiting. "Why are you so nervous?"

I hum to myself, half-pretending I haven't heard her. "What do you mean?"

" _Luke_. You've been to dozens of these... _functions_ ," she wrinkles her nose as she says it, though I know she's always quite enjoyed them, "so I know it's not just that. Something's different about tonight."

"Indeed. The omens this morning were horrendous." Ben's face after we caught a glimpse of that raven and the guts it left spread over the roof of the conservatory still haunts me.

"The omens were bad at my ascension as heir, too, but that went off without a hitch."

"There was an _attempted assassination._ "

"And the event _still went off without a hitch_. You sorcerers are paranoid."

My lips twist.

She sees it in the mirror and grimaces—goes to tilt her head in an acquiescent shrug, even, before she stops herself so I don't mess up her braids. I huff to myself quietly.

"You know I put total faith in your abilities, Luke," she says earnestly. "And..."

"Me being worried," I finish drolly, completing the last twist, "is making you worried."

Leia breathes out as my hands drop from her hair. "Yes. I mean..." She bites her lip and I glare out of instinct; she catches the look and grins. But her teeth slip off her lip; her nervous tick is no longer as apparent.

"You're _supposed_ to be worried."

" _On guard_ ," she corrects. "We do want these peace negotiations to go well."

I grimace. "Palpatine and Vader don't know what peace means."

"Well, we're not going to hand over the sorcerers we're sheltering," Leia pats my arm and rises from the chair, "so you don't have to worry about that."

"I know. But what else—"

"No buts. Alderaan is too valuable a trading partner to risk, and you know we have a history with Naboo. We're in a good position to strike this treaty."

I flinch. "Leia..." I swallow bile. Fire, soot, smoke and collapsing walls and screams and the horrible, haunting melody of a terrified woman's lullaby rising above it all...

_In the winds and the rains and the mountain plains..._

"I don't think that _history_ will be any help here."

She frowns at me.

"Palpatine, Vader..."

"Are just men," she reminds me.

" _Powerful_ men."

"Luke," she says, "it will be alright. I promise that you— _all of you_ —are safe here."

I say, "That's not what I'm afraid of." Vader doesn't need _permission_ to deal with sorcerers he deems worthy of his time.

Leia swallows. "You know," she says, "if we spin this right—if we get a good enough treaty, that ties their hands enough for Sabé—"

I wince. "Sabé..."

"I know, I know. I'm just saying, that if this goes _really well_ , you could go home."

Blinking tears out of my eyes and clenching my teeth, I shake my head. "I—"

"It's near impossible, I know. But think about it."

She spread her arms, her bejewelled shawl twitching with the movement and catching the candlelight. "How do I look?"

I smile at her wistfully, melancholy forgotten. She wears the same long, white dress style Alderaanian princesses always favour, with the sleeves ending at her elbows, but with a silver lace shawl that twinkles with miniscule blue and white diamonds, and the subtle adornments of blue necklaces and bracelets up her bare forearms. Even her hairnet glitters so. She's a white star.

I say as much.

She smiles.

We turn to head down to the ballroom, knowing they'll be waiting for her.

The corridors of the palace are largely empty at this time, everyone either working at or attending the function, or making themselves scarce in the face of our Imperial guests. It's not exactly like I'm the _only_ Naboo refugee who fled Palpatine's regime to find a home here.

Even empty, the corridors are a public space, so I walk a half-step behind Leia. I'm her _royal companion_ , her shadow; everyone here knows the Alderaanian tradition of childhood companion, advisor, protector, so I have no need to hide. But _she_ is the figurehead, so—similar to how Bail's grey, knight-like robes are a backdrop to Breha's more noticeable outfits—my navy tunic and robes and vanguards are the shadow to Leia's light. I'm there if you look—but only if you look.

We arrive in the small chamber off the side of the main ballroom, where Tuvee waits for Leia. Leia takes her seat, then I catch her eye and she nods. I head back out again.

The moment I step into the ballroom, I know Vader is already here. His... _presence_ , or rather, the presence of his magic, is stifling.

Proximity to dark magic, ever since my mother's death, hurts.

But I'm here for Leia. My job is to keep Leia safe and well. And I don't trust the Naboo Imperials within six feet of Leia.

I reach for the folds of my cloak and draw out the thin stick of willow under there. And then I, subtly, wave it.

I know the spell like I know my mind.

It ripples across the room, that faint imprint of light sailing smooth as glass where it's safe, bunching and tearing around the people who pose a threat. Most of the areas where it bunches are Imperial _diplomats_ whose rigid postures betray them as the elite troopers they actually are, and I flick my eyes over them: enough of a threat to register and catalogue, not enough to be actively wary of.

But one threat tears a hole right through my blanket, full of festering darkness, and I know exactly who it will be that did it before I turn my head.

So I don't.

I loop the ballroom first, confident in my clothing and my gait and the tiny spells I cast to stay hidden. Only once I'm on the other side of the room do I dare to look towards where I know Lord Vader, Dark Lord of Theed, to be.

He's not there.

A hand on my wrist, my shoulder, and it takes _everything_ in me not to lash out and make a scene. I let myself be spun around instead.

"So Alderaan's found another little sorcerer to try to oppose us with," mocks a voice, reverberating oddly. The hand still in a vice-like grip on my arm tightens almost threateningly. "Did you think you could hide from my gaze, little shadow boy?"

I grit my teeth.

 _Shadow boy_. Stay in the background.

Hide from your mother's murderer.

So I don't say anything. I stay with my gaze averted, hoping His Imperial Lordship will get tired of me.

"Are you deaf? Dumb?" The hand on my shoulder moves to take my chin in a jaw crushing grip, but doesn't tilt my head up just yet. I grind my teeth.

"No, my lord," I manage to say through it.

"Alderaanian manners are worth less than they're famed for if you cannot look a man in the eye when you apologise."

_I'm Naboo._

But I raise my chin. "Apologies, my lord," I bite out. I jerk back, out of hands that—a moment ago—went slack.

A breath catches behind Vader's armour.

We are at a strange angle to the ballroom here, by the pillars around the edges of the room, which support the ceiling around the large skylight. Candlelight stripes the black metal of Vader's armour, and the gold and silver filigree that picks out swirling patterns from Naboo mythology across his shoulder, his vambraces, his full face helmet and visor.

I bite back my snarl. It is an _insult_ to see a stylised design of Shiraya, Goddess of Justice, _my mother's patron goddess_ , snarling fiercely on this murderer's armour.

I can still feel Vader's gaze on me. He has yet to stay anything, staring.

I worry what he's staring at.

A heartbeat later and I slink away, vanishing into the crowd before he can come to his senses again.

I've finished what I needed to do, anyway.

Leia and the governess, Tuvee, are still waiting when I return. Leia gives me a concerned look. "You look shaken."

I shrug and try to smile. "Vader came up on the test. Nothing unexpected."

Tilting her head, she narrows her eyes at me. "You're sure you're alright?"

No. "Yes, I'm sure." I don't have a choice to be alright or not: this is my role, and I will fulfil it gladly. Keep Leia safe.

Companion. Advisor. Protector.

So I smile at her, bow low at the waist, and offer my hand. "Are you ready to face down the scum of this earth, Your Highness?"

" _Luke_!" Tuvee smacks the back of my head lightly, but there's humour in her voice. She ruffles my hair a little to get it back to lying... well, as flat as it goes.

Leia laughs, and takes my hand daintily. She has never, ever been dainty, but she's very good at playing princess. "Let's go."

There is no fanfare, no announcement of her entrance like I remember from Naboo's court. Alderaan is less... _ostentatious_ than I'm used to, even after five years here. Alderaanian fashion is more understated in its depiction of wealth and power, like Leia's dress shimmering with tiny jewels, rather than the heavy ornaments I remember having to wear—the heavy ornaments I remember my father squirming under.

I smile despite myself.

So we just enter the ballroom through one door among many and mingle with the crowd instantaneously. I don't follow her, not overtly, but I hover.

Lady Evaan, who I'm pretty sure is planning on stepping down to take the role of Leia's Captain of the Guard soon, makes excellent conversation. She's also a very convenient dance partner: she knows to let me keep an eye on Leia as we dance.

Leia is dancing with a stiff, grey Imperial diplomat who's looking at her a _little_ too fondly. I purse my lips when I see it; Evaan, after I spin her so she can see, narrows her eyes.

"What are the Imperials even looking for with this treaty?" she hisses.

I drawl, "Peace?"

She snorts. "Yeah. The Empire of Naboo, with all its conquered and plundered territories on this continent, wants to _make peace_ with the only kingdom not under its yoke."

"It's a very new empire," I argue, spinning her around again so we're further from Imperial ears. "Ten years of war isn't exactly a stable foundation. They can't afford to alienate a kingdom this powerful. Besides," I add tentatively, repeating what Leia said to me, "Alderaan has a history with Naboo." Leia and I are second cousins once removed, I think.

"We have a history with the monarchy. That monarchy died with Queen Amidala. We have no history with the Empire." Her voice is rising; I give her an urgent look, and she quiets herself.

She gives _me_ a look in return. "You fled Naboo at that time, didn't you?"

I can't answer what she's implicitly asking—no one's meant to know if they don't need to know, Ben says, until... whenever there's a better situation for it to be known in. I don't know.

But I do nod. "That's when I left, yes."

"Why? Palpatine didn't start his usurpation, conquest and reign of terror for a good few months after that, until..."

_Until it was clear that the royal family were all dead, Vader had come onto the scene and all the sorcerers not loyal to the regime had been purged._

_Until all the sorcerers who_ didn't submit _had been purged._

I shrug. "Ben could tell where the wind was blowing."

The song ends.

I give a short bow and squeeze her hand reassuringly. She plays along—gives me a small, exasperated smile.

But, just before I turn away, she whispers, "I believe you... Your Highness."

I pretend not to hear her.

Leia's partner is chatting her ear off still; he hasn't let go, even has her upper arm in what looks like a bruising grip. I make a beeline for her immediately.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the onyx and gold figure of Vader standing by the pillars, helmet turned purposefully towards me. I ignore him.

The Imperial diplomat turns when I tap him on the shoulder. At first, he scoffs and sneers when he sees me. I know that I don't exactly look like the most intimidating of bodyguards, but I glare at him, lips flattening into a thin line. The music starts again and I hold my hand out to Leia.

His gaze flickers slightly and he goes pale. He lets go of Leia's arm.

He walks away.

Leia rolls her eyes once he's gone and grins at me, shaking the delicate sleeves of her dress to get rid of the wrinkles. "Thanks, Luke, you're a hero."

"What did he want?" My hand is still hovering; she takes it and my other hand rests loosely on her waist.

She rolls her eyes again. "Something inane, a _marriage alliance_ —"

Someone taps me on the shoulder.

We haven't started dancing yet but we still halt abruptly, and I stiffen. I already know who it is.

When we turn, I have to tilt my head right back to look Vader in the eyes.

All that's visible of them beyond the mask are two, unsettlingly bright pricks of gold.

He holds out a gauntleted hand himself, despite the music that's already been playing for a while.

Not to Leia, though.

To me.

I exchange a look with Leia—I can see she's tense, but despite that semi-aggressive... _conversation_ I had with Vader earlier, we _really_ can't afford to offend the Empire.

So I smile awkwardly. Reach out my hand, slowly and tentatively, in the vague hope that I've misread the situation, that it's actually Leia that he wants—

That steel hand closes around my wrist and I'm yanked forward.

Vader's grip is firm, but he seems to be taking care to be gentle. I can't comfortably reach his shoulder so I rest my other hand on his side, the metal chilling to the touch; his other hand goes on my shoulder, uncomfortably close to my neck.

His movements to the music are stilted and his armour clinks awkwardly. I laugh despite myself—Papa used to be a _terrible_ dancer, could only do it in public if Mama was his partner, but Vader makes him look like a prodigy—before I catch myself.

I can't afford to offend.

His grip tightens uncomfortably when I stop myself, but I ignore it. I meet his pin-prick eyes instead.

"My lord," I say tentatively, "why are you dancing with me, and not Leia— Her Highness?"

I don't know how I can tell, but I think he's smiling.

"Princess Leia Organa has other... _diplomats_ to woo." He says the word with disgust. "I am here as a symbol of Naboo's might, not to negotiate."

"The Empire's."

"What?" He's looking at me funny, head tilted slightly.

"The Empire's might?" I say. "Not Naboo's."

He's still looking at me funny. "The Empire is Naboo," he tells me. "That is why I am loyal to it."

"Palpatine's Naboo," I say lightly—anything accusatory might cause an international incident— "not Amidala's?"

" _They are the same._ "

The grips on my shoulder and hand turn bone-crushing and I cry out.

The music stops. People stare.

Vader glares.

The music starts again and we keep moving. I ignore the pain in my hand.

"Apologies," I say. "I was under the impression that Amidala was overthrown so Palpatine could rule. I didn't mean to cause offence."

"You... did not," Vader grinds out. "Though it's a disgrace that a companion to the heir to one of the most influential kingdoms on this continent is so poorly educated about our politics."

_Pretty thoroughly educated on it, actually._

"That your accent pins you as of clear Naboo blood makes it even more so."

I don't say anything.

"Amidala—" He, oddly enough, chokes on my mother's name. "—was killed by insurgents. Terrorists. Her... entire family died." There's an old, old _agony_ in his voice, and for the first time I wonder if Vader, the mysterious, _murderous_ knight I've heard so many horror stories about, was someone in the palace I knew.

Someone who loved us.

"The terrorists were executed, and with the royal family _dead_ ," again, that grip tightening, "Palpatine, Pad— _Amidala's_ chief advisor, stepped up to be king."

"I see." I swallow. I... have to wonder, then, what Ben has been sheltering me from, _hiding_ me from all these years. Five in the mountains of Naboo, five in the heart of the neighbouring kingdom... what had led him to such extreme aims?

Why, if the problem was that there _was_ no living royal heir, hide the only one left?

"You still," I tell him, "haven't told me why you wanted to dance with _me_."

He laughs.

It's a... surprisingly pleasant laugh for such a terrifying man, deep and rich. It reverberates through his armour the way his speech does, but nowhere near as unpleasantly.

It's also intimately familiar and I half-close my eyes, trying to remember—blurry images of the palace corridors, Mama's handmaidens, the guards standing in armour at each interval...

"Your spell earlier was very powerful—very well-cast. Why would I not want to speak to such a talented young sorcerer?"

 _Because you and your_ King Palpatine _killed all the sorcerers who wouldn't practice the dark, twisted methods you do—_

"How old are you, if I may ask?"

There's still something wonderfully _familiar_ about him, something I should trust.

"Seventeen," I say automatically.

He smiles broadly. Again, I don't know how I know, but I'm certain of it.

"Most impressive, then. I suppose you have no interest in returning to Theed with me to—"

"I don't feel like getting executed, no."

"You would not be _executed_ , little one—"

 _Little one_.

My eyes blow wide. I _stare_.

Then the song comes to an end and I shake my head.

I'm being ridiculous.

I step away from him with a tight smile. "It's been lovely speaking to you, Lord Vader."

"Wait, Luke—"

Again, _familiarity_.

I walk away.

I walk straight to Bail, in fact, who stands next to Leia. They both watch me with identical, worried brown eyes.

Bail pats me on the shoulder when I reach him.

"Leave the function," he murmurs. "Ben is waiting for you in the observatory. The guards can watch Leia for tonight."

I nod, and keep walking. It's not until I reach the double doors that I pause to look back.

Vader has not moved from where I left him, and is staring right at me.

I let the door shut behind me.

It's not a long walk to the observatory, and I take the steps in the tower two at a time. The smooth marble staircase spirals; I'm dizzy by the time I reach the top.

The observatory takes up the entire top floor of the (admittedly not very large) tower. The ceiling is domed glass and as always, I take a moment to watch the stars of the night wheel by in all their unending glory. The bractealis constellation is high in the sky. That's... not a good omen, but it's not a bad one either.

It just indicates _change and continuity_. Whatever that might mean.

I pick my way round the altar still strewn with blood and guts, the table of Ben's various potions sizzling away, to where Ben stands peering through a massive telescope at the moon.

"Ben?" I ask.

He hums, tilting the telescope down to almost horizontal, fixed on more earthly things.

I look out at the Alderaanian landscape, spread beyond the crystalline dome at the top of the palace. To the south, I can see the rest of Aldera lit up with braziers against the night; to the north and west, the sea rolls endlessly. The brilliant, precise beam of the great lighthouse probes the waves every so often and the light playing off the silver surface is always fascinating to watch.

But Ben's gaze points east, so that's where I look.

We look homeward.

The mountains that mark the border between Alderaan and Naboo are far east, and pockets of villages, lit in the night, adorn their sides like earthbound constellations. I tilt my head and squint to make out the shape of the jagged peaks against the sky, black on the darkest blue, but if I squint hard enough I can see the second tallest peak, Appenza—not in the least because of the faint white spark near its summit. Another observatory like this one, nestled further up than any Imperial scouts ever dared to venture.

My home, for five years after... everything.

"If you look really hard through the telescope," I ask, "can you see Cordé waving at us?"

Ben laughs and finally straightens from whatever he was watching in the mountains. "Unfortunately not."

I smile—then frown. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

He grimaces. "I hear that Vader was at the function today."

"You need to hear? Can't you _feel_ him?" I shudder. "He's still down there—the function hasn't finished yet."

"Then thank you for leaving it to come here. Leia?"

"Also still down there. _Politicking_. The guards are watching her and when I left, Evaan was _this_ close to throwing down with the nearest Imperial, so she'll help as well."

He barks a laugh. "Then we can be sure the princess is in good hands. I just wanted you away from Vader."

"It's appreciated." I round the table and tug off the robe-like portion of my outfit, slinging it over one of the chairs. I pull my wand out while I'm at it—lay it on the table by the chair, next to a sheaf of papers. "Are you finished with the—"

Then I read what that sheaf of papers say on them.

"I'll put the telescope away, Luke, don't worry about it," Ben says, already placing the cap back over the eyepiece. "Since I don't think it's a good idea to hold an impromptu magic lesson while Vader's in the palace—"

" _You_? Cancelling training, for any reason whatsoever?" I press my hand to my heart and pretend to look shocked. "How scandalous."

"I _know_." He chuckles. "But this is necessary. Don't worry," he knocks the back of my head lightly as he walks past; I duck, grinning, "I'll be back to my cruel, hard-working ways tomorrow.

"In the meantime," he tilts his head at the pile of reports, "I thought these might interest you."

I nod and reach for the papers, running my thumb over the symbol stamped at the top: a hawk and a candlewick.

The symbol for the Alderaanian intelligence network.

The title of the report is: _The Social, Political, Economic and Military State of Naboo_ , and the date reads as yesterday.

It sounds dry as the deserts in the far south, but I clutch it like the shaak toy Papa gave me when I was two.

I don't expect hope when I'm reading it, but I hope anyway—and get inevitably disappointed, of course. The situation has hardly got any better, Vader's presence here only proves it, but...

I want to go home so much that it's easy to forget, just long enough to hope.

 _Home_.

I lived in Theed for seven years. I don't even remember masses about it; I've lived away from it for so much longer. But for all the time I spent living in the mountains, I looked down to where I was born; all the time I've lived here, I stare towards the mountain passes.

I want to go home.

But I can't. Not so long as Palpatine holds power.

"Anything promising in there?" Ben asks when I throw the report back down on the table, finished.

I shake my head sadly, and he purses his lips.

"Well," he says, "one can hope."

"Yeah." I push myself to my feet and sweep up my robes again, slinging them over my arm. My wand clatters to the floor and I scoop it up almost without thinking. " _Hope_ is the only thing we _can_ do."

"Luke? Where are you going?"

I pause. Sigh.

"I think I'll just head back to my quarters, Ben. I... I'm tired. Vader was... stressful to deal with." I don't want to go into more detail about our _conversation_ just yet; I should process it first.

He walks over to rest a hand on my shoulder. "I understand. Go to sleep—with any luck, Vader will be gone by the time you wake up."

I laugh. " _With any luck_."

Then, wand still gripped tightly in my hand, I hurry down the stairs. My footsteps echo loudly, but I don't think anything of it.

Until, that is, I emerge from the stairwell. I turn to walk along the sweeping corridors, pale face reflecting in the windows—

"Halt!"

I tense up instantly; I don't even know why.

But I know _exactly_ why I tense further when I shuffle round, slowly, to see the silver-clad soldiers I was _just_ reading about in that report.

Stormtroopers.

Why are there stormtroopers here?

I turn my head quickly and try to keep walking, but the rush of their clattering footsteps behind me says exactly how well _that_ plan goes.

"I said _halt_!"

A metal hand clamps down on my shoulder; I spin round, out of their reach, and bring my hand with the wand up. "Don't touch me."

The trooper in front, who grabbed me, stiffens. Then he drawls, "Then obey orders when given them, _sir_."

"Your orders hold sway over Naboo citizens, not Alderaanians. No one here need answer to you."

"Your accent pins you as a Naboo citizen, _sir_ ," he continues to mock. "At least, an ex one before you fled with the rest of the scum sorcerers—"

"We've been ordered to escort you to Lord Vader," his companion interrupts. _He_ is also watching my wand uneasily, but still says, "He promises that you will not be harmed."

I really shouldn't go.

It's a terrible idea.

Ben warned me to stay away from Vader, I really shouldn't go—

But when I reach out with my magic, try to peer into the future... all I sense is _joy_.

In the immediate future. Surprise, and with it... joy.

Curiosity, I'm told, is a dangerous trait—to myself, _and_ to others.

I sigh and lower my wand.

"Alright," I say. "Lead the way."

They hesitate, still stiff as two staffs... then turn to walk back through the corridors. I follow at a comfortable distance.

We go down the corridor, down a few flights of stairs. We veer pretty close to the ballroom at one point, in fact, and I can hear the music of the minstrels and the music of laughter. If I listen hard, I can hear Leia's laughter in particular.

But we don't enter. We move further down the corridor, to where the smaller meeting rooms are. Sometimes they're used for _clandestine_ purposes, I know—I walked in on a few when I was twelve and new to this sort of thing and _never_ made that mistake again—but this one is actually more comfortable and stately than those ones, with a cabinet to the side of the door, a hat stand in the corner, and a desk in front of the window. Rich velvet drapes are drawn over the glass panes, reddish in the light of the flickering chandelier, and brush the back of a heavy, elegant chair.

Vader sits stiffly in that chair—half wooden as a nutcracker, half slouching. His dark armour looks supremely uncomfortable to be perched in like that.

It's very odd, and that sort of awkwardness among court normalities is... almost familiar—

"You may leave."

I stiffen instinctively at the deep command, half-turning myself, before I catch on and the troopers shut the door behind them with a decisive _click_.

I listen closely. There's no further _snick_ of the key in the lock, but considering I'm in a relatively small room with the knight of dark magic and murder, it doesn't reassure me.

"You will not be _locked in_ , Luke," Vader says, frustrated, though there's a touch of humour to his voice as well. I narrow my eyes—at the use of my name, _and_ his tone.

"I suppose you don't need locked doors to—"

"Have a civil conversation with my lost prince? Hopefully not. I don't intend to scare you away."

My eyes blow wide. _My lost prince_ reverberates on the air with finality and I take a half-step back, already turning—

"Though it appears I already have."

There's a tight, gauntleted hand around my wrist before I can move any further. I flinch, but he just gently guides me back towards the desk, and the chandelier hanging above it.

"Sit," he coaxes, gesturing to the second chair by the desk, just as large and elegant—though I note, with something that would've been called amusement in any kinder situation, that Vader has taken the cushion off his chair and put it on mine. "I have no intention of hurting you. I mean you no harm. I just want to talk to you, Your Highness."

I flinch at the title. I didn't flinch when Evaan used it, but _Vader_ —

It does not escape him. "Would you prefer 'Luke'?"

I grimace. Swallow. Shake my head.

"Highness it is, then." He reaches for some of the papers on the table, running his gloved fingers over them. "Your Highness, you have been missing for quite some time. We thought you dead."

"Well, I suppose that's the point of keeping it a _secret_ ," I bite out. "How did you—"

He snorts. "Give me some credit, Highness. You are a sorcerer. You have a Naboo accent. Your name is Luke. You are seventeen. You look... so different, to ten years ago, obviously, but similar enough that it is—" A pause. "Uncanny. And..."

A moment longer of staring. "Your magic feels much the same as it did back then, too."

"You remember what that feels like, _Sith_?" The old insult burns my tongue.

His fist clenches. "The dark side of magic is infinitely more powerful than light magic; I am sorry that you and your powers were limited, squandered and squashed for all these years because your kidnappers raised you to think differently."

" _Excuse me?_ " Kidnappers, _squandered_ —

"However," he holds a hand up, "this is not a topic I wish to discuss with you for the moment."

"Then you _shouldn't have brought it up_ —"

"It was not I who brought it up, Highness," he says—through gritted teeth, if I'm not mistaken. "And again: I have no wish to discuss it right now."

He reaches for the papers again and clutches them in his lap. The edges crinkle. "Now, the Prince Consort tells me you've lived here with the Alderaanian court for five years?"

What.

I blink. Bail—

Has Bail sold me out?

I choke on a sob.

Did _he_ invite Vader to do this, hand me over, decide that I was too good a bargaining chip to pass over when Alderaan stands to gain so much from this treaty—

"Calm yourself, Highness," Vader says. "Organa was hardly a willing participant in this."

I wince at that. That's _worse_ —

"That is to say," he hurries to correct, but seems lost for words, "he... did not volunteer this information. He was barely persuaded to part with it."

Shaking my head. "You're... not making this sound any better."

He huffs a sigh. "This is not what I wanted to discuss, Highness. I had meant to ask where you were for the five years immediately after—" Again, that pause. "Immediately after Padmé's death."

...oh.

 _Padmé's_ death?

So Vader _was_ one of the sorcerers who knew us well, after all.

"We searched for you incessantly."

I clench my fists. If Vader had known Mama and still bowed to and served that usurper who killed her... That makes it _worse_.

"Making sure I was dead?" I ask bitterly.

He freezes.

Even through that hellish, disrespectful mask, I can feel him _staring_.

" _What_ ," he hisses, "did you say?"

Repeating it would be a ridiculously bad idea.

I repeat it.

"You and your _king_ overthrew my mother and murdered her," I spit, "so I can only assume you were searching for me to make sure _I_ was dead as well!"

"Who told you that."

"Does it _matter_?"

" _Who told you that_ —" His fists clench. "That _blatant lie_."

"How is it a lie!?" I'm shouting now. I don't care. "You killed my mother—"

" _I loved your mother_."

I blink.

"...what?"

He leans forward, and I'm too scared to meet that distant yellow gaze behind the visor, but too compelled not to. Dark magic roils in the room, yet... none of it comes near me.

I have to wonder at that.

"I loved your mother," he tells me, voice full of passion and grief and _rage_ — "and _I loved you_."

Metal grinds against metal as he closes his hands into fists on his knees.

"I still do love you."

I shake my head. " _I don't remember you_ , _Lord Vader_."

Then, inexplicably, he laughs.

He laughs even harder at the sheer _confusion_ that mars my face, then his hand shoots up to ruffle my perfectly combed hair into chaos. I puff a strand out of my face, crossing my arms—

Then freeze.

That... was a painfully familiar gesture.

I stare at him. He laughs again, lowly, and—incredibly—reaches up to remove his helmet.

I stare some more. He sets the helmet down on the desk with a _thunk_. I don't care.

My eyes trace the curve of his nose, the twist of his lips, the shape of his (yellow, but not always yellow) eyes...

There's the sheen of scar tissue from magically-healed burns there. An ugly scar bisects the right side of his face, a testament to all the battles I'm sure he's been in, both as the usurper king's right hand and—

And as my—

I whisper, "Papa?"

A smile breaks out across his face. I fling myself out of my chair with barely a thought, and then the hard, cold ridges of his armour are digging into me and my face is smushed against his shoulder but—

My father laughs, sounding like a half-sob, and wraps his arms around me too.

"Hello, Luke," he murmurs. "It's been a while."

" _Papa_..." As loathe as I am to let go, hugging him like this _is_ painful and— and I want to see his _face_. "What— I thought you were _dead_!"

He's smiling at me so broadly it twists his scar. It looks painful, but he doesn't seem to care. His hand closes around mine.

"And I thought you were dead, until I sensed and saw you in that ballroom," he says. "Where—" He chokes on the word and places his hand on my cheek, running his thumb along my cheekbone. "Where _were_ you, I—"

"We fled. Into the mountains."

"We figured as much at the time, but _Luke_ —" His voice breaks again; I lean into his hand. "Why didn't you come _back_?"

"I— I was _seven_ , I couldn't go without them and they didn't want to explain it and scare me—"

"Who is _they_?" Papa narrows his eyes, and the way they suddenly spark a bright, bright gold frightens me.

"The handmaidens, aunties—Sabé, Cordé, Dormé. And Ben..."

"Ben?" he asks for a moment, puzzled—then remembers whose name I shortened when I was young because I couldn't pronounce it in full. " _Obi-Wan_?"

"When the attack came Mama told him to protect me and get out of Theed, to get to safety."

"I... understand all of that." He lets out a breath and his hand falls from my face. Before I can protest, he takes my hands in his and holds them just as fiercely. "But why didn't you come _back_ —why did you think I was dead?"

"Because Palpatine announced that _everyone_ in the royal family was dead! Including you!"

"Because you never came back! I thought— I _thought_ you and your mother were both dead, perished in the chaos, and I wanted to die too, I wanted to vanish into obscurity and never look anyone in the eye again after how badly I failed you both, but Palpatine convinced me that your kingdom still needed me! So I put on the damned mask so I didn't _have_ to face anyone, and continued to protect the new king and wage his wars against those who threatened the peace that Padmé fought so hard for..."

A cold, cold stone is growing in my gut. "And conquer and slaughter and oppress," I finish, "to make his empire for him?"

A growl leaps from his throat. "The Empire is—"

"A _disgrace_ to everything Mama stood for." I let go of his hands and step back, away, settling back into my chair with the two cushions. "Helmed by the man who overthrew her—"

" _Who_ told you such lies about him—us?" That storm of dark magic is back, crushing the room in its intensity, and suddenly it's hard to breathe— "Who turned you against your own kingdom? Is _this_ why you never came home, because someone, the _Organas_ —"

"They're not _lies_!" I shout at him. That storm is _painful_ ; memories flash to mind of figures in dark robes and amber eyes glaring at me, wands raised and muttered curses, then Ben crashing onto the scene—

"I _know_ they're not!" I continue. "Sabé showed me the evidence Mama was collecting on Palpatine even before he had her killed, and I was _there_ , in the room"—or cave, whatever—"when she interrogated some of the conspirators to confirm that he ordered it! But when she went back to find someone who would listen, she was chased out by your Inquisitors and their _anti-terrorist_ mandate! _Nobody would listen!_ "

"He was Padmé's _most trusted advisor_ , she would've told me if—"

"She didn't want to tell you until she was absolutely sure, she knew you were close to him—"

"Palpatine is a _good man_ ," he hisses at me, shooting to his feet and _towering_ over me. I suddenly feel very, very small in the face of—

Well. In the face of Darth Vader.

I take a deep breath, channel every piece of my mother I have in me, and lift my chin haughtily. "Good men do not order massacres in the name of their own glory," I spit. "And nor are their right-hand men famed for being brutal, murderous _monsters_ —"

A blast flings me backwards. The chair crashes to the floor and I go _flying_ , just as the door bursts open, and then I collide with the carpet _hard_ —

I black out for a few moments. When I pry my eyes open again, there's a figure in homespun robes standing over me, wand pointed at Vader.

A sob racks my chest. Ben.

" _Anakin_." Ben glances down at me, and I can see the afterimage of shock on his face, but he moves on rapidly to— "What have you _done_ —"

Vader prowls closer, but Ben keeps standing in front of me like a shield. " _Obi-Wan_. So you stole my son and hid him from me all these years."

"As I heard Luke say, we all thought you were dead, and we all knew he would be in danger from Palpatine if he returned." Ben's voice is forcefully calm, but I can practically hear him screaming in confusion. "Every word of what Luke told you is true."

"Palpatine is a _good man_ ," Vader spits. "I trust him, I am loyal to him."

I bite out, "I thought you said you were loyal to Naboo."

He freezes, gaze finding mine. I try to sit up, but the throbbing in my head sends tears down my cheeks and my heartbeat quickens at the heavy press of dark magic, far, far too familiar—

My father tries to say, "They are one and the s—"

"I don't think, Anakin," Ben drawls, "that any man who teaches you a magic and a lifestyle full of such violence that you hurt your son within minutes of reuniting with him is _a good man_."

"Dark magic—"

"Nearly killed Luke ten years ago when Palpatine sent his sorcerers after him in the coup," Ben says, crouching down beside me. His hand rests on my back, rubbing; I gasp for air. "Please contain it; interacting with it is never a good experience for him."

Papa hesitates, face contorted in an ugly snarl... then his gaze lands on the tears on my face. He nods curtly.

The press of darkness around me recedes and I manage to breathe.

"Th—" I gasp out. "Thank you."

He's watching me carefully. "Anything, Luke."

"Whether you deny it or not, Anakin," Ben tells him, "Luke was right when he said that Palpatine had Padmé killed." Papa clenches his fists. "I have copies of the investigations and the evidence upstairs, if you want to see it. Sabé gathered it all."

Papa grits his teeth.

I say, "Mama trusted Sabé with her life."

"More than that," Ben says. "Padmé trusted Sabé with her _son_." His lips quirk, a little wryly. "I was just told to tag along."

Finally, Papa relaxes. Minutely. "I do trust Sabé's word. But I want to see this evidence for myself."

Ben smiles, and nods. "Of course. Come with me." He glances at me. "Do you want to stay here?"

I nod silently. Push myself to my feet and stagger into the chair again. It knocks into the table with the force of it; a few papers are sent to the floor.

Papa stands, then half reaches his hand out to me. "Luke..."

"Go look at the papers," I tell him, "then we can talk."

He swallows, and retracts his hand. "Yes, Highness."

That stings a little, but I ignore him. Close my eyes. Cross my legs, up on the chair.

I slip into a healing trance before they even leave the room. The rush of magic through my bloodstream wipes away the lingering stain (and discomfort) of dark magic, and although I'm too out of it to feel or do it consciously, I smile...

_"Bractealis."_

My eyes slide open to see Papa sitting back in his chair opposite me, face haggard and devastated, watching me and Ben jealously. Ben is standing on my left: a familiar, comfortable presence.

I uncross my legs and put my feet back on the floor. "Did you get the evidence you wanted?" There's a lot more paper on the office table; I recognise Sabé's painstakingly neat handwriting on each sheet.

Papa nods. His lips are wan.

"I understand now," he says. His voice is croaky, like he's been shouting, screaming. Crying. "I believe you. I... know why you never came home."

His voice breaks on the _home_ and I feel compelled to add, "I wanted to."

He nods and swallows tightly.

"So..." I glance up at Ben, who's watching Papa with a melancholy gaze, then avert my eyes. "What now?"

Papa's eyes harden. They're still that unnatural shade of yellow.

"Now," he says, "I begin to make things right."

Then he seizes my arm.

"Papa!"

He's dragged me halfway out the door before the yelp escapes me. Troopers meet him in the corridor and I _hear_ their double take.

"Lord Vader—"

"Out my way," he snaps and they punt backwards like he pulled out one of his spells on them. They stare though. They stare briefly at me, but their helmets all swivel back to Vader as they fall into step behind us—and after a moment, I realise why.

"Papa..." I say. They jerk in shock at that, as well, staring. "Your helmet..."

"I don't care," he says fiercely.

"Then what are you—"

He kicks the doors to the ballroom open and the minstrels' music screeches to a halt. Leia, dancing with her father in the middle of the room, gapes at me; I grimace vehemently. _I don't know what this is either!_

The minstrels shuffle off their dais when they realise we're approaching. I freeze when all the faces turn towards me but Papa does not stop and his grip turns almost bruising.

He drags me up onto the dais.

"Vader," I hiss, and maybe calling him that isn't helping my case but I won't say _Papa_ in front of Leia before I can explain— "Vader, what are you _doing_ —"

"As a part of the treaty between our two kingdoms," he announces. I cringe. "And in the spirit of the long partnership between them."

"You've learnt public speaking," I mutter. I don't think he hears me.

"We will unite in support of— and support and celebrate—"

I take it back. He has not learnt public speaking.

"—the righting of an old wrong, the return of someone dearly missed. I ask that here, now, you will recognise _my son_ —"

Leia's eyes go wide.

Well, _kriff_ —

"—Prince Luke Naberrie of Naboo."

He lifts my arm. I've given up resisting at this point. Instead, I try to lift my chin, look at least _somewhat_ regal.

I really hope he knows what he's doing.

"And that you support his ascension as king."


	2. The Sorcerer

.

**Vader**

.

Alderaan looks a lot like Naboo—of course; historically, geographically and once upon a time politically, they are very similar—but it is a pale imitation of it. What I feel when I cast my gaze around the domed buildings (unnecessarily tall and thin), the mountains in the distance (shorter and squatter than home), is not _homesickness_. It's scorn.

Even the palace follows the Alderaanian ideal of _understated_. It's far from the grandest I've ever seen, fairly small, and almost looks like a part of the mountain. One can see it from outside the city gates, but... barely.

When our delegation arrives at the gates, the stiff, pale young soldier manning the gatehouse snaps to attention from what appears to be an unacceptable state of drowsiness, his dark eyes going wide when they clap on me in full, grand armour. Padmé's patron goddess snarls at him on my helmet, and as always I am equally pained and glad that I can carry out my role as her supporter, her partner, her protector—

—her _failed_ protector—

—in this way.

Naboo's most beloved queen was killed. But this continent will still bow to her will, her memory—and her glory.

"The Imperial delegation, sir!" the soldier at the gatehouse shouts, and an older soldier peers at us through the lattice of wood and metal that passes for a defence.

I narrow my eyes behind the visor, studying it, then snort. One well-placed spell could blow it wide open; why my master insists on _honouring Naboo's diplomatic ties_ with these people and _striking a peace treaty_ instead of just crushing such arrogance underfoot like everywhere else, I have no—

 _Oh_.

Something deep inside me shudders when we pass over the border into the city. Something intangible, in the same warm (now cold—for years, so, so cold) spot beneath my ribs but above my belly, where I summon all magic from—dark _or_ light.

This magic, I think grimly, this magic that shimmers round the city and teases and weaves and tenses, is light.

And it is a powerful— _achingly familiar_ , though I can't place where from—magic indeed.

Alderaan has not stopped sheltering our traitorous fugitive sorcerers, then. All well and good, but I hope _Her Majesty the Queen_ understands that if I run into any, I will torment and I will kill them.

We parade through the streets—are _escorted_ through the streets, rather, and only the most solemn of crowds comes to meet us. Autumn's early dusk is falling and the west is clouded by the storms at sea. Only a murky, purplish-grey light heralds the sinking of the sun and washes the shining faces of the few locals who dare poke their heads out of windows to watch us pass in dull, unflattering tones. The drab architecture fares no better.

Theed would still look colourful in this light. Aldera does not.

After a while, we are far enough into the city that the ground begins a definitive slope upwards towards the palace itself, higher up in these hills. The streets wind now, to prevent from being near-vertical, and I narrow my eyes at the soldiers escorting us. This is taking too long.

Finally, we cross through even more heavily guarded gates into the palace grounds. And now... there's _another_ shudder of magic wards bending and bowing to let us in.

This time, I recognise it.

I curl my lip. _Obi-Wan_.

Obi-Wan _survived_?

He _survived_ the attack ten years ago, when Padmé and Luke—the boy he was sworn and supposed to protect—did not?

How—

Had—

Did he flee like a coward, then?

Did he flee, leaving my son to die?

Did he seek refuge _here_ when we led our purges against the plotters and the traitors, did he run to Padmé's _dear friends and allies_ the Organas and never return to help us rebuild?

 _If I see him here_ —

The path to the main doors of the palace stops here, at the base of the seemingly endless steps—if they think _that_ is a decent intimidation tactic, they will soon learn differently—and we dismount. A few stable boys come to lead the horses away, a few footmen come to take our luggage, and the diplomats emerge from their cushy carriages, complaining loudly and haughtily about the pain in their backsides.

I roll my eyes.

Sometimes—all the time—I truly hate what my master has made of my wife's once functional court.

"My Lord Vader." A wiry man in Alderaan's un-fine finest comes down the steps to bow deeply and gesture towards the door. "You arrived later than expected—the welcoming ball is almost ready to begin. If it pleases my lord, I can lead you and your delegation to their quarters for the duration of these talks and perhaps you all can change and rest for a short time, then let us know when you are ready—"

"If I am going to attend a _ball_ ," the word disgusts me, the _concept_ disgusts me, but Palpatine likes me to attend such frivolous affairs as a constant reminder of Naboo's strength, so I will obey, "I shall not waste any more time than necessary before we can proceed to the negotiations themselves. Begin the ball forthwith; anyone"—I turn to glare pointedly at all the diplomats; they shrink back from my gaze and the swish of my cloak, puffing themselves up—"who arrives late, arrives late."

"Ah, my lord." The man is surprised. It irks me. "Would you not like to change—"

"To the quarters. Now."

He swallows and nods. "Yes, my lord. Right this way."

The Alderaanian palace fits with exactly what I expected—and remember. I haven't been back here since...

Well, since Luke was a little boy and ran through the corridors with an eagerness at odds with the shyness he exhibited after a figure he mistook for one of the suits of armour turned out to be a guard, who crouched down to let him wear his helmet and stagger about with it on, crowing his delight, until Padmé scooped him up in one elegant motion that didn't so much as crinkle her dress and I laughed and lifted the helmet off Luke's head to find him laughing too.

I swallow, and glance sharply away from the guards who watch us with mistrustful eyes.

The quarters I am assigned are the same as the ones I shared with my family on that trip in happier times. I barely glance at the king's bed, the pattern on the carpet, the stately chair in the corner— _Padmé sat reading in that chair while Luke napped in her lap_ —before I march back out again, to the quartermaster's horror.

"My lord—!"

"Take me to the ball, if you are so insistent on beginning it promptly."

He does not follow, but a nearby guard does. He leads me there, tense the whole way.

The ball has indeed barely begun: a collection of Alderaanian nobles in a large room, with a mostly-glass ceiling supported by columns around the edges where the side doors are. I stride in.

The minstrels' music stutters for a moment when they all clap eyes on me, but I pointedly turn away and they continue. The nobles eye me with the same apprehension, but the result is also the same. No one approaches.

The Imperial diplomats, in nicer clothes, eventually find their way here to make small talk with the nobles anyway. There is no need for anyone to bother me.

But there may be a need for _me_ to bother someone.

I feel the ripple of magic—again, hauntingly familiar but I can't place where from—before I see the pathetically slight figure who's sidled in. I narrow my eyes at that blond head when I finally spot him—his manner and clothing, even duller than the average Alderaanian, fade into the shadows effectively; I suspect that's the point—and then tilt my head when he subtly glances in my direction.

Well.

I swore that if I saw a sorcerer here, I would torment and kill them.

He circles the room, but he doesn't fool me, and I make to creep up behind him. He's clearly still young, inexperienced; I can get close enough to seize his wrist without him noticing.

He bites back a cry when I forcibly spin him. It's dark here by the pillars, and the angle of his face casts most of it in the shadow of the lit braziers.

"So Alderaan's found another little sorcerer to try to oppose us with," I mock. He takes a deep breath and stays calm—apparently he isn't quite cognizant of his situation yet. Alderaan can't afford to be fussy if I kill him here and now. "Did you think you could hide from my gaze, little shadow boy?"

His jaw clenches. I smile under the helmet.

He doesn't move and I make to try to take his chin, to tilt his face up. I want to see his fear there. But I wait a moment—give him the chance to do it himself. "Are you deaf? Dumb?"

He gets out around my hand on his jaw, "No, my lord."

I scoff. "Alderaanian manners are worth less than they're famed for if you cannot look a man in the eye when you apologise."

He _clearly_ bites something back there, but something in his shoulders squares. He raises his chin.

I drop my hand in shock.

"Apologies," he says, "my lord."

I stare.

The candlelight casts his face in soft gold and thick shadows, catching his irises to glow like sunlight in a pale sky, and with all his uncanny resemblance to the boy who would never grow up, the boy I _always imagine_ growing up, I could be staring at my dead son.

For a moment, I can't believe it. The chin—

Is cleft like mine.

The nose—

Is small and round like Padmé's.

The eyes—

Mine.

The stature—

Padmé's.

The magic, the _powerful, powerful_ magic, as familiar to me in an unknown, instinctual way as Obi-Wan's was—

Well, that came from me too.

This can't be him.

 _Obi-Wan is alive_ , I remember. _Obi-Wan, apparently, fled._

_And Luke's body was never found._

That doesn't mean anything. That _can't_ mean anything—

I blink and he's gone. Vanished into the crowd?

Or was I imagining him all along?

I swallow, straighten. I'm shaken by... all of this, the way Alderaan is Naboo but isn't, the memories of when I was last here, the ridiculous notion that a place my son only ever visited once could carry such memories of his spirit and laughter and light...

That young, upstart sorcerer is gone from the room, so I glance around. Clench my fists. Then glance around again.

The troopers from the 501st I told to dress up like diplomats or escorts to keep an eye on things are doing their job, sure enough. I scan the crowd until I spot Captain Piett, stiff and uncomfortable in his fine suit and robes. I march over to him before I even consider trying to imitate the subtle, careful diplomacy with which most of the people in this room move, avoiding drawing attention to themselves.

"Piett," I hiss the moment I'm near enough. He has a glass of wine in his hand and jumps at the sound, sloshing several drops over his crisp white sleeve. His face, carefully controlled usually, carries the slightest hint of mortification.

It's only a few red stains. I snap, "Have you noticed any sorcerers?"

Let him wonder what my motivation behind asking is. I have no need to explain myself to him, and his duty is to obey.

"I— uh, not that I am certain of, my lord," he gets out.

I press, "Any you _suspect_?"

He swallows. "There was a boy in here a moment ago. I thought that he matched the descriptions of the Princess Leia's companion, who I know to be a sorcerer. If he appeared, then I assume it was to ascertain the situation before the Princess entered—he's gone, so I suspect she must be coming soon."

I have no interest in the Princess of Alderaan. "A boy?"

"Yes, my lord. Of course I have no proof to suggest he is indeed the companion—"

"Clarify to me what the role of a _companion_ is." It sounds familiar—Padmé may have explained it to me, once upon a happier time—but I don't remember the term.

"Ah, of course, my lord. Alderaan's tradition—much like Naboo's one of handmaidens—is where each royal scion is assigned a companion at birth or in childhood. I believe Princess Leia's was assigned fairly late, when she was as old as twelve. They are to serve as their closest friend and confidante, as they grow up, and also an advisor or a protector. A bodyguard, of sorts, responsible for their safety and safety detail, though of course by no means the _only_ bodyguard as far as protection goes. The idea is to be someone in whom the scion can wholly and totally place their trust."

"I see." Indeed, it sounds like a toothless version of Naboo's handmaidens; a group of such friends, several who can serve as a potential decoy or body double, would always be more effective than a single person.

Even if that single person was a sorcerer.

"And you believe you saw the Princess's companion in here a few moments ago?"

"I do, my lord."

"Describe him."

Piett swallows. Again. The wine stains on his sleeve are totally forgotten. "Relatively short, my lord, with blond hair, and wearing a similar clothing ensemble to that of the Prince Consort himself." Piett nods at Bail Organa, holding court on the other side of the room. His suit and robes, his vanguards, certainly match what the boy I spoke to was wearing.

So I didn't imagine it.

The boy was real.

A boy, a _sorcerer_ , who came to the Alderaanian court five years ago—with Obi-Wan?—wearing the face of my son...

"Have you any idea how old this companion would be?"

Again, Piett restrains his grimace to say, "If he is of a similar age to the Princess, seventeen. Or thereabouts."

 _Seventeen_. He looks younger, but then—

— _Luke always did look younger than his age_ —

—some people do.

I nod curtly. "Thank you, Captain Piett," I say, and walk away fast enough to make him spill his drink again.

"Wait, my lord—"

I pause. "Yes?"

Piett nods towards the double doors at the end of the room. "There is the Princess—and the boy, her companion."

I turn to see what he's talking about.

Sure enough, the boy is back, and from a distance it's even harder not to see my son in him. He strolls half a step behind a brown-haired girl wearing a dress that was probably severely expensive but doesn't have anything to show for it, thanks to Alderaanian _restraint_ ; that, I think, lip curling, must be the Princess.

How did Luke— _if_ he is Luke, _if_ I'm right, _if_ hope is a luxury and an agony I can afford to indulge in—end up _companion_ to _her_? How did he end up _here_?

Luke drifts away from the Princess—Leigh? Rey? Maya?—to dance with a taller girl of a similar age, blonde hair in this nation's characteristic crown around her head. They're speaking quietly, L— _maybe-Luke_ smiling faintly at something she said. Every so often, he keeps a discrete eye on the Princess, subtle enough that even I wouldn't have noticed if I wasn't watching him so intently...

"My lord?" Piett breaks into my thoughts.

I snap "What?" before I come to my senses. I've been staring—for quite a while now, long enough that the minstrels' music is dying out to soon be replaced by another song. Of course he's concerned.

But the boy is turning now, and I catch a glimpse of his face again. His gaze turns towards me, then away very quickly. I grind my teeth.

He walks over to the Princess again, concern and a steely anger creasing his face, and I follow his eyes to see what's wrong. The Imperial diplomat the Princess was dancing with before—Tion, I note with a particular disgust—has not let go, gripping her arm possessively.

The Princess's companion clearly does not take kindly to that.

I edge closer, even as Tion scoffs at the boy, eyeing his small, slim frame (like Padmé's, I don't want to think but do) and then... _something_ swells up in me.

Dislike of Tion, it might be. I'm sure it is.

I move close enough that his gaze latches onto me over the boy's shoulder; he pales as I incline my head and make a sharp gesture with my hand. He lets go immediately, and I half-step back.

Then I pause.

The next song has already started, but I can still twist this to my advantage...

A moment later, then I'm close enough to hear it as the Princess mutters, "Thanks, Luke, you're a hero."

I freeze. Again.

Luke.

_Luke._

This is—

The _odds_ of that coincidence—

This _must be_ —

I need to talk to him. I need to talk to him, to _know_ that this hope in my gut is correct, that he is who I want him to be—

I'm looming over him and tapping his shoulder.

He stiffens.

He is not stupid. (He never was.)

Turning, he tilts his head back almost belligerently so he can look me in the eye, and my chest constricts at both the second direct look at the face he shares with my son and the proud, challenging look I saw my wife give _so many_ throughout her lifetime...

I almost bash into him, I hold out my hand so fast and eagerly. He stares at it like it's a rock snake.

He glances at the Princess. She is frowning faintly, but her face is schooled into a neutral expression otherwise.

He takes the hand slowly—too slowly. I pull him into the dance before he has the chance to blink; the song is already well underway.

Then I remember why I hate dancing.

Padmé used to guide me through it, whisper instructions until I didn't trip over my own feet in front of visiting dignitaries and my own court, and now she's not here to help. There's just her son—he _must_ be, I'm _sure_ of it—giggling as he half-recognises my awkward attempts at grace, before he drags his features back into a polite, distant expression.

I almost snarl, tightening my grip. He winces minutely; I loosen it again.

"My lord," he says, slow and careful and _diplomatic_ , "why are you dancing with me, and not Leia— Her Highness?"

(Leia. That was her name.)

I smile at his frown, at this _little_ , _living_ _boy_ , and tears prick my eyes.

It takes me a moment to get together any explanation that makes sense, until: "Princess Leia Organa has other... _diplomats_ ," I'll call them that, "to woo. I am here as a symbol of Naboo's might, not to negotiate."

"The Empire's."

I frown at him. "What. . .?"

"The Empire's might?" he says. "Not Naboo's."

What—

What did _that_ mean? What difference was there? "The Empire is Naboo." He should belong to _us_ , not _Princess Leia Organa_. "That is why I am loyal to it."

His tone is far too light for the heretical words he says next: "Palpatine's Naboo, not Amidala's?"

" _They are the same_."

Is— is _that_ why he never came back? Why whoever he was with— _Obi-Wan?_ —never brought him, a child, home to his father, because they thought we were _different_? We made changes, certainly, ones that _I'm sure Padmé would understand, in the necessary circumstances_ —

He cries out.

I'm gripping him, I'm gripping my alive, grown-up son, tightly enough that it hurts him.

The music stops as I stare at him. People stare at me.

I snap my head up to glare at them.

The music resumes, and so does the dance. Only the tightness at Luke's lips betrays his remaining pain.

"Apologies," he says, voice ever-so-slightly shaky. "I was under the impression that Amidala was overthrown so Palpatine could rule. I didn't mean to cause offence."

What?

_What?_

And therein, I think, lies why he never came back.

Because someone fed him all these _lies_ —

"You... did not," I get out, when I realise I haven't responded. "Though it's a _disgrace_ that a"—prince, a sorcerer, _my son_ —"companion to the heir to one of the most influential kingdoms on this continent is so poorly educated about our politics. That your accent pins you as of clear Naboo blood makes it even more so."

He's silent. Waiting out my outburst, perhaps, or waiting for further explanation...

"Amidala," I try not to sob at the memory of her, "was killed by _insurgents_." Aurra Sing, Cad Bane, Jango Fett—their names and their faces are branded into my mind, as are their screams from when I executed them. As is the rush it gave me, once I'd embraced the power Palpatine showed me, the power that could have, should have saved my family... "Palpatine, Pad— _Amidala's_ chief advisor, stepped up to be king."

And I supported him. Why would I not? He was my mentor—and I had no one else.

"I see," he says, and says no more on the matter.

But he does say: "You still haven't told me why you wanted to dance with _me_."

I can hear Padmé in his cadences, but my petulant child whining in his tone, and I laugh.

He... reacts to that laugh, half-closing his eyes, and my breath hitches. Does he recognise...?

No realisation comes. I try not to feel disappointed.

"Your spell earlier was very powerful," I say instead, "very well cast. Why would I not want to speak to such a talented young sorcerer?"

His lips tighten—at what, I don't know—but I continue, "How old are you, if I may ask?"

"Seventeen," he says immediately.

Seventeen.

It's him.

I smile. Seventeen.

It _hurts_.

I've missed so much. I've missed _so much_.

But, I decide immediately, no more.

"Most impressive, then." I mean it. "I suppose you have no interest in returning to Theed with me to—?"

"I don't feel like getting executed, no."

I snap, "You would not be _executed_ , little one—" He is our _prince_ , not some traitorous sorcerer, he would be returned to the throne where he belongs—

But he's frozen still.

His eyes are wide.

And I realise what I called him.

I swallow, unable to deny the hope pounding in my chest. Is he— Does he—

He shakes his head to himself and I deflate.

The song has come to an end. He extricates himself from my grip; for a moment I consider holding on tighter, _never letting go_ , but that would not endear me to him. I let him retreat.

He smiles stiffly and takes another half step back. Perhaps I can talk to him, lead him away, tell him the truth and convince him to come home; he hasn't left yet...

"It's been lovely speaking to you, Lord Vader."

I pounce forwards. "Wait, Luke—" _No—_

He walks away.

After one brief step in his direction, I watch him go, heart tight.

He stalks right over to— yes, over to the _Organas_. His precious princess, who stands next to her father, both glancing between him and me with worried expressions—

Good. I hook my thumbs into my belt. Let them worry that the lies they've fed my son, my heir, my _rightful king_ , will collapse around them. That he'll leave their service and return home, to rule the Empire we've created in his absence. I hope I can see their faces when they see what their deceit has wrought—I hope that when Palpatine sees what treachery Alderaan is capable of, his last act before abdicating to my son will be to allow me to ignore this _peace treaty_ and burn Aldera to the ground for this offence.

The damned Prince Consort puts his hand on Luke's shoulder and Luke leans into it, and I want to _roar_ —

Then Luke walks away.

I track his movement hungrily, and frown when I see him heading for the main doors. He pauses before he exits.

He looks straight at me.

He looks away before I can think to wave, or react, or do _anything_ of use, and leaves the room.

Actual, passive presences cannot be felt clearly through magic—even dark magic. But trails of magic, the eddies and swirls, can leave imprints, particularly around powerful sorcerers like us, and I can already feel his imprint fading.

I turn to look at Organa. He, of course, is looking at me with his usual diplomatically neutral expression, but I can see the strain in the tightness of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes.

It worsens when I shift, finally, from my position in the centre of the dance floor, like a statue coming to life to slowly, methodically, walk towards him.

His throat bobs, and he fights the urge to flee.

Princess Leia tries to move so she's angled between myself and her father, then her father pushes her away and does the same for her. I can have no sympathy for his protectiveness: _he stole my son from me_.

I halt right in front of him.

"Your Highness," I hiss out, watching his tan skin pale even as he straightens up, those dark robes—so much like Luke was wearing, so _Alderaanian_ —brushing his shoulders. "May we speak in private?"

Organa makes eye contact with his daughter and jerks his head. She narrows her eyes, but, after much staring, goes.

Would my relationship with Luke have been like that? Stubborn heirs trying to establish themselves, while their fathers tried to keep them safe?

I don't know.

I will _never know_.

Because of _him_ —

"Of course, Lord Vader," Organa says smoothly, and gestures to some of the smaller doors that line the hallway. "Right this way."

I let him lead me out of the room, but I'm a head taller than him and I _know_ the rasp of my breath inside the helmet, the clank of armour as I move, has proven a severe distraction for lesser men. Organa doesn't break, but he does bend a little bit: his tension is becoming more apparent by the moment.

We leave the ballroom, and it's a short walk across the corridor to a small room, half office, half living room. The desk pushed into the corner is made of a heavy wroshyr wood, from Kashyyyk, and I raise my eyebrows behind my visor. Is this supposed to impress me?

Neither of us sits at the desk. Organa pulls both chairs around, to give us equal footing, but I don't sit when he does. I stand, and tower.

Then I pace.

"So, Lord Vader, what was it you had an interest in—"

"That boy," I interrupt. "That boy is _everything_ I have an interest in."

He tenses further, but has the sheer _gall_ to ask, "And, what about him—"

" _Did you think, Organa_ ," I march over to him and bend down so we're on eye level, the scabbards on my belt containing my sword and my wand swinging down to smack his knee, "that I would not recognise my lost prince?"

Still, he has the nerve to continue, "My lord...?"

" _That boy is Luke Naberrie_ ," I spit. "Prince of Naboo, and now of the Empire we have created. He was declared _dead_ ten years ago."

Organa folds his hands in his lap. "Well then, Lord Vader," he said, "if you had wanted us to hand him over for execution on the off-chance that he be a threat to your master's throne, I'm afraid that would have violated our commitment to protect _any_ sorcerers seeking sanctuary in Alderaan, and—"

My glove is at his throat in an instant, but I do not squeeze.

I need him alive, for now.

"His destiny does not involve _execution_ ," I hiss. "I have no idea why you, and he, are so convinced of that."

"Then what does his destiny hold?"

" _Being Emperor_. Reclaiming his throne. He should not have been raised in service to _your daughter_ , he is _above_ her—"

"Be careful who you insult in Aldera, Lord Vader, you are here under our hospitality."

"—and above _this_. He should have stayed with us, loyal to _his kingdom_ , and known every comfort imaginable." I straighten up again. "I demand that you return him to our custody _immediately_."

"He is seventeen. Under the laws of Naboo _and_ Alderaan, he has been an adult and in his own custody for over a year now."

" _I do not care_." Leather creaks as I clench my fists. "You _will_ turn him into my custody, if you have any desire for these negotiations to succeed."

He straightens at that, alarm crossing his face and tossing words from his lips: "Lord Vader, you are not a diplomat. King Palpatine—"

"Will entirely understand if I raze Aldera to the ground for your treason," I purr. "Kidnapping of a royal heir is an act of war, remember? Perhaps if you refuse to give me our prince, we shall see how cooperative you are if your princess is in Imperial hands."

"I already told you, Lord Vader," Organa says lowly. "Be careful what you say in Aldera. You _are_ outnumbered here."

"I like my odds. And I recognise no restraint when dealing with kidnappers—"

"His legal guardians entrusted him to our care. I do not believe that is considered _kidnapping_."

" _I am his legal guardian_."

"My l— What?" For the first time, now, he looks genuinely surprised. "How—"

"I will ask you again, Organa," I drop my voice, "to return Prince Luke Naberrie of Naboo, my _son_ , to Imperial hands, so that he may return home with us when we leave."

Organa mouths _my son_ and stares.

He says, "Anakin?"

"Silence." I fold my arms across my chest and glare down at him. "Are those conditions acceptable?"

"Luke thinks—we all thought—that you're _dead_ —"

" _Are those conditions acceptable._ "

"...as I said, my lord," he says, "Luke is an adult. He will choose to come with you if he wishes to."

"Then it is vital that we explain to him why he should come with us, isn't it?" I smile, but there's no joy in the expression. "Now. Have you records about what happened to him? How long he has been here? Documents of these _legal guardians_ who claim to know best for him?"

Organa pauses. "We do, but—"

"I _will_ raze Aldera to the ground if you do not cooperate with me, Organa, and the only thing that will stop me is my son's word. I would hope therefore that you'd do everything you could to put my son in a position, with me, where he can give that word."

"Yes, my lord." He's seething. I don't care.

"Good. Fetch the papers for me, and tell me where you sent the boy to get him away from me." A snap of my fingers and two stormtroopers appear in the doorway. "I will have him fetched, and brought here."

Organa hesitates—not long enough for me to snap at him, but notably nonetheless. "The conservatory, upstairs."

"Good." To the troopers, I say, "Go."

They salute and obey.

I turn back to Organa. "Now retrieve those papers, so I can familiarise myself with what I've missed in _the last ten years of my son's life_."

Organa does fetch them. It doesn't take long; a few minutes at most, but I still only have time to skim the first page.

Then, and only then, do I sit down on the chair. The seat is uncomfortable and, out of a habit I barely remember from when I last saw my son, I give his chair an extra cushion from mine. I doubt he needs the extra height anymore, Padmé's build though he may have, but...

He's at the door.

I fix my gaze on him the moment he's there. His face is slightly flushed, his robes less painstakingly neat, but he looks...

Angelic.

The way Padmé always did. Both mother and son wear formality and informality as well as each other.

His gaze meanders around the room in a desperate attempt to avoid looking at me—to the curtains, to the table, to the hat stand. Then he finally deigns to slide his gaze to me, and his jaw clenches unconsciously.

But then he tilts his head. Narrows his eyes slightly. I wonder what he sees.

Without taking my eyes off him, I wave my hand at the troopers. This is not something they have the right to witness; they barely have the right to be near him. "You may leave."

He stiffens at the command and half turns away himself, before he catches himself. I can practically hear his heart hammering.

He tenses again at the _snick_ of the door and I can't help but snort, bite out: "You will not be _locked in_ , Luke."

The name slips out without permission and part of the sheer... _relish_ of getting to use it, my possessiveness, must slip out with it. He narrows his eyes immediately.

I sigh.

"I suppose you don't need locked doors to—"

"Have a civil conversation with my lost prince?" I interrupt, before I can think twice, and I _grin_ as I'm finally able to say it aloud. This is my prince. This is my son. "Hopefully not. I don't intend to scare you away."

But his eyes widen anyway, and he backs away, terror stark on his face.

I growl to myself, low in my throat, and I'm stalking forwards before I even manage to think.

What does he think of me? What rumours has he heard—what lies has he been fed?

Why did he never come home?

I clench my fist— _gently_ —around his wrist. "Though it appears I already have."

He flinches. I resist the urge to let go immediately, and just tug him further into the room, pushing him slightly towards the chair with the two cushions.

"Sit," I say, surprised at the tenderness, the calm joy, in my own voice. "I have no intention of hurting you. I mean you no harm. I just want to talk to you, Your Highness."

He flinches again. I clench one fist in my lap—have the Organas, has _Obi-Wan_ , alienated him from his rightful place, his rightful family, his rightful kingdom and his rightful title so thoroughly?—but just coax, quietly, "Would you prefer 'Luke'?"

He wouldn't. That is obvious; he shuddered when I called him that earlier, and he doesn't like or trust me—no, not me, the Darth Vader of his imagination—at all. Yet I find myself hoping...

He grimaces, swallows, and shakes his head.

I bite back my disappointment.

The fact that I get to call my son, my living, breathing son, anything at all is a blessing.

"Highness it is, then."

I... need to do something with my hands. I can't look at him either, not for too long, or I'll tear up or collapse or try to say everything at once and terrify him into never coming back—

I reach for the papers Organa gave me instead. Run my fingers over his name, the full title written next to it. They knew exactly what they were doing when they took him, and anger hardens my voice when I continue.

"Your Highness, you have been missing for quite some time." _Far too long_. "We thought you dead."

"Well," he does not hesitate to snap, "I suppose that's the point of keeping it a _secret_. How did you—"

I snort. "Give me some credit, Highness. You are a sorcerer. You have a Naboo accent. Your name is Luke, you are seventeen, you look..." My breath hitches. "... _so_ different, to ten years ago, obviously, but similar enough that it is—" My chest is in _agony_. "Uncanny.

"And..." I stare for a moment, here, because he's clearly very well trained. Whoever decided magic was more important for a prince to learn than the accurate political situation of his own kingdom—Obi-Wan?—baffles me, but he _is_ very well trained. Knowing that I had nothing to do with it hurts. "Your magic feels much the same as it did back then, too."

He scoffs. "You remember what that feels like, _Sith_?"

I flinch. The _venom_ in his voice as he says that word, the old curse for evil, evil beings that gets applied to my strand of magic far too often...

He has been led astray, and I am apoplectic.

"The dark side of magic is infinitely more powerful than light magic; I am sorry that you and your powers were limited, squandered and squashed for all these years because your kidnappers raised you to think differently."

The _offence_ on his face is... the moment I know I'm in trouble.

Padmé used to get that expression before she went very, very quiet.

_"Excuse me?"_

"However," I hold my hand up; I can't afford an argument I'm doomed to lose, not here and now, "this is not a topic I wish to discuss with you for the moment."

"Then you _shouldn't have brought it up_."

"It was _not I_ who brought it up, Highness," I grind out. Please, just let me continue. "And again: I have no wish to discuss it now."

Before he can speak, I barrel on, clutching those papers like a lifeline. "Now, the Prince Consort tells me you've lived here with the Alderaanian court for five years?"

He blinks.

I blink too, as he chokes on a sob.

Why is he being so—

_Oh._

"Calm yourself, Highness," I try. I feel like he wouldn't appreciate a hug right now—not from the _enemy_ he's afraid his _protector_ just _sold him to_. "Organa was hardly a willing participant in this."

He winces and I hurry on, "That is to say, he... did not volunteer this information. He was barely persuaded to part with it."

He shakes his head. "You're... not making this sound any better."

I'm not, am I?

I sigh. "This is not what I wanted to discuss, Highness. I had meant to ask where you were for the five years immediately after—" I swallow, trying not to choke on a sudden flood of tears. "Immediately after Padmé's death."

I watch him, closely, wondering if he noticed my slip. His expression does shift, somehow, but I can't for the life of me figure out what it means.

"We searched for you _incessantly_."

He clenches his fists suddenly.

Before I can even wonder why, he hisses, "Making sure I was dead?"

What.

 _What_.

My hands tremble in my lap but my shoulders are still. All I can do is stare.

" _What_ did you say?"

He swallows, a belated sense of self-preservation shoving itself to the front, and for the first time I realise my magic is filling the room in a dark, choking cold.

But he squares his shoulder and says:

"You and your _king_ overthrew my mother and _murdered_ her, so I can only assume you were searching for me to make sure _I_ was dead as well!"

"Who told you that." It takes conscious effort to rein the magic in, and all I want to do is _unleash_ it, hunt down every liar and fraud and kidnapper responsible for _this_ and hear their musical screams as I tear them limb from limb—

"Does it _matter_?"

" _Who told you that_ —" My fists clench; under the gauntlets, my tendons bulge. "That _blatant lie_."

"How is it a lie?" His loud, youthful voice vibrates right into my helmet, louder and louder and louder— "You killed my mother—"

" _I loved your mother!_ "

The admission tears from my throat. Stopping it would be like stopping my blood from flowing.

"...what?"

I lean forwards and make sure, helmet or not, he looks me in the eye.

"I loved your mother," I grind out, "and _I loved you_."

The familiar screech of metal as my hands fist on my knees and I confess, "I still do love you."

Agony on his face, of the awkward kind, and he shakes his head. " _I_ ," he informs me, voice ringing with all the authority of an emperor—a greater emperor than my master, as powerful as he is, could ever hope to be— " _don't remember you, Lord Vader_."

I laugh.

Bafflement clouds his face, I laugh even harder, and I can't hold back anymore; I ruffle his hair, careful not to bash his scalp with the gauntlet.

It has been so long since I touched someone affectionately.

He freezes and stares, and there will never be a better time than this.

He's staring for every moment that I remove my helmet, as I fiddle with the latch, the visor, as I place it on the table to the side without breaking his gaze. His mouth has fallen open to form a small, dainty 'oh'.

His eyes rove across my face, and his mouth forms a word—

And then he says it. Quietly, reverently, like this is a dream he doesn't want to wake from...

"Papa?"

I couldn't have stopped myself from smiling if I wanted to, and suddenly Luke is _there_ , right on top of me, small (but not as small as they used to be) hands clutching at me—

I wrap my arms around him too, trying not to sob.

"Hello, Luke," I rasp out. He's _here_. He's alive. "It's been a while."

" _Papa_..." He leans back and I let go reluctantly, clasp his wrist before he can back off too far, but he has no plans to; he stays close, and stares. "What— I thought you were dead!"

Smiling this broadly hurts, and I wouldn't change it for the world. I slip my hand down his wrist, to take his.

"And I thought you were dead, until I sensed and saw you in that ballroom. Where—" I can't speak, so I rest my hand on his cheek instead, marvelling at the way he leans into the touch. "Where _were_ you, I—"

"We fled. Into the mountains."

My breaths quicken. "We figured as much at the time, but _Luke_ —" I choke, and smile as he leans into my hand more. The smile drops as I say, "Why didn't you come _back_?"

"I— I was _seven_ ," he swallows, "I couldn't go without them and they didn't want to explain it and scare me—"

I growl, "Who's _they_?"

He hesitates, and suddenly doesn't want to meet my eye. "The handmaidens," he says eventually, though I suppose I could've guessed, "aunts—Sabé, Cordé. And Ben..."

"Ben?" Who—

Then, of course, I remember: a baby voice struggling to say my friend's true name and mangling it to _Ben_ , an affectionate nickname that stuck, even when we'd entrusted that friend and brother to look after him on that fateful day.

" _Obi-Wan_?" I say, and— I don't want to believe it, but I _know_ he fled Naboo, I thought it was to avoid facing his failures and their consequences, but if it was actually to—

To—

Luke continues, perfectly innocent, "When the attack came Mama told him to protect me and get out of Theed, to get to safety."

"I... understand all of that." I breathe in, then out; I need to stay calm. I drop my hands from his face to his hands, running my thumb over his.

He's here. He's alive.

"But," I add, voice breaking, "why didn't you come _back_ —why did you think _I_ was dead?"

"Because Palpatine announced that _everyone_ in the royal family was dead! Including you!"

" _Because you never came back!_ " I forcibly calm myself. "I thought— I thought you and your mother were both dead, perished in the chaos, and I wanted to die too, I wanted to vanish into obscurity and never look anyone in the eye again after how badly I failed you both, but Palpatine convinced me that your kingdom still needed me! So I put on the damned mask so I didn't _have_ to face anyone, and continued to protect the new king and wage his wars against those who threatened the peace that Padmé fought so hard for..."

I trail off at the sight of his expression. It's frozen in a sort of dull horror, scepticism, a disappointed disapproval that again, Padmé used to wield so well.

"And conquer and slaughter and oppress," he finishes, "to make his empire for him?"

_What lies have they told my son about me?_

"The Empire," I spit, "is—"

"A _disgrace_ to everything Mama stood for."

That shocks me enough that I don't resist when he releases my hands and backs away, like I'm a vicious animal about to bite. A— a _disgrace_?

He's not done. "Helmed by the man who overthrew her—"

" _Who_ told you such lies about him—us?" I burst out. I can feel the dark magic writhing around me, responding to my anger, _feeding_ off it, but I don't care. Even as he goes pale, his breathing quickening, I don't care.

"Who turned you against your own kingdom? Is _this_ why you never came home, because someone, the _Organas_ —"

He shouts, "They're not _lies_!"

He's almost bent over double, half-clutching at his head amidst the storm, but he still has the strength to shout, "I _know_ they're not! Sabé _showed me_ the evidence Mama was collecting on Palpatine even before he had her killed, and I was _there_ , in the room when she interrogated some of the conspirators to confirm that he ordered it! But when she went _back_ to find someone who would listen, she was chased out by your Inquisitors and their _anti-terrorist_ mandate!" He sobs. " _Nobody would listen!_ "

I clench my hands on my knees. "He was Padmé's _most trusted advisor_ , she would've told me if—"

"She didn't want to tell you until she was absolutely sure, she knew you were close to him—"

"Palpatine is a _good man_ ," I hiss, finally shoving myself to my feet and closing the distance between us again.

He shrinks back, but lifts his chin with all the regal bearing of his mother and declares, "Good men do not order massacres in the name of their own glory."

A single, pregnant pause. I stare at him.

Then he finishes: "And nor are their _right-hand_ men famed for being brutal, murderous _monsters_ —"

I roar and he goes flying. There's a crash: as his chair hits the floor, as _he_ hits the floor, and also as the door swings open to admit—

I stare.

Obi-Wan has seen far better days.

His eyes blow wide when he lays them on Luke, and he instinctively angles his body between me and _my son_ , bending down to brush his fingers across his forehead—

And, despite myself, I look at Luke too. He's... very, very still.

No. I— I can't _breathe_ —

He twitches and stirs again and Obi-Wan breathes a tiny sigh of relief, rising to his feet to point his wand at me and finally _look_ —

And he stills, barely breathing.

" _Anakin_."

He glances away from me, back to Luke, who's looking up at him with an imploring expression. I stamp down my jealousy; not now. Later, but not now.

Obi-Wan shakes his head. "What have you _done_ —"

Anger ignites in me again and I stalk closer. Obi-Wan refuses to budge from in front of Luke, refuses to _let me see_ Luke, and it offends me enough that I spit: " _Obi-Wan_. So _you_ stole my son and hid him from me all these years."

"As I heard Luke say," Obi-Wan says smoothly, shaken but unperturbed, "we all thought you were dead, and we all knew he would be in danger from Palpatine if he returned. Every word of what Luke told you is true."

"Palpatine is a _good man_ ," I repeat. "I trust him, I am loyal to him."

Luke bites out, tears glistening in his eyes as he cradles his head, "I thought you said you were loyal to Naboo."

I still, glancing back down at him. I want to look away the moment I see him wince in pain, the moment he starts crying quietly— _I caused that I caused that I caused that_ —

I try, "They are one and the s—"

"I don't think, Anakin," Obi-Wan drawls cuttingly, "that any man who teaches you a magic and a lifestyle full of so much violence that you hurt your son within minutes of reuniting with him is _a good man_."

How _dare he_ — "Dark magic—"

"Nearly killed Luke ten years ago," Obi-Wan crouches down beside Luke, rubbing his back gently and I glare— _I_ am his father—"when Palpatine sent his sorcerers after him in the coup. Please contain it," Luke sobs and gasps, "interacting with it is never a good experience for him."

I pause, about to tell Obi-Wan _exactly_ what I think of his _light magic_... but Luke is in pain. Luke is crying.

I nod stiffly and rein in the darkness.

Luke chokes for a moment before he manages to breathe and get out, "Th— Thank you."

I say, "Anything, Luke," as he wipes away his tears.

"Whether you deny it or not, Anakin," Obi-Wan cuts in, "Luke was right when he said that Palpatine had Padmé killed." I clench my fists. "I have copies of the investigations and the evidence upstairs, if you want to see it. Sabé gathered it all."

I can't.

I shouldn't.

I am loyal to Palpatine—this is clearly all a big mistake, a misunderstanding, perhaps a trick on the part of the Organas, or a traitorous handmaiden, or _something_ to steal away my son and see Naboo suffer for it—

Luke says quietly, "Mama trusted Sabé with her life."

I slowly, very slowly, turn my head towards him.

"More than that," Obi-Wan adds on. "Padmé trusted Sabé with her _son_. I"—his smile makes something in my chest ache—"was just told to tag along."

It's true.

Padmé trusted Sabé implicitly. Because Sabé loved her. And because Sabé was no fool.

If she is convinced of something, I should take her word seriously.

"I do trust Sabé's word," I say, half to Luke, half to convince myself. "But I want to see this evidence for myself."

Obi-Wan has the nerve to smile. "Of course. Come with me." Then, to Luke, "Do you want to stay here?"

Luke nods, saying nothing.

He staggers to his feet and then into the chair, accidentally jostling the table and knocking some of Organa's papers to the floor. I reach out a hand to steady him. "Luke..."

He doesn't make eye contact with me.

"Go look at the papers," he orders, "then we can talk."

I take back my hand. Bow my head, and try not to feel stung. "Yes, Highness."

He closes his eyes and crosses his legs in lieu of responding and within moments his breathing evens out, his back perfectly straight.

"Healing trance," Obi-Wan says. "He's good at them."

I glower. "I remember him being terrible at them."

Obi-Wan shrugs. "Ten years is more than enough time to learn a skill. Now come on," he continues before I can say whatever cutting thing is on the edge of my tongue, "the papers—the evidence—are this way."

He leads me out through the door; I take the time to slip my helmet back on before I go. Luke barely twitches as I jostle the table beside him.

"Anakin," Obi-Wan says, and I tear my gaze away.

It's a short walk, but it feels like miles. The silence is stiff and awkward; it's not until we emerge from that long, steep spiral staircase into a glass observatory that I find something to say.

What I say is: "Fancy."

Obi-Wan twitches his lips. "The Organas had money to spare."

While he rifles in some cabinets by the side of the stairs, I wander over to a telescope and peer through it. It's not fixed on the sky, strangely enough; it's fixed on a point in the mountains. A point where a light glows...

"That's the safe house Luke and I hid in for five years," Obi-Wan explains, coming back to dump his papers on the table next to the telescope. A sweep of his arm clears the dust and papers already occupying it. "Before we came here."

I squint even harder at the light then, but at night it's too hard to make out anything. We have to ride near there to get back to Naboo anyway; we'll visit then, I resolve. I'll get Luke to show me around. Show me where he was.

Now, though, I need to know why he was there at all.

Obi-Wan unfurled a leather wallet of old papers, and my heart seizes the moment I recognise Padmé's writing.

"This is..." He trails off when I pick up the letter—a very serious letter, from Padmé to Sabé in response to this other one in the pile, from Sabé to Padmé. I haven't used the code it's written in for a decade but I remember it—

Remember it enough to blink tears back at seeing my wife's writing, my wife's words, as she talks about the man she fears will kill her.

The man who _did_ kill her.

The paper crinkles, I'm holding it so tightly.

"He'll pay for this," I growl, "I will _make him pay for this_ —"

"Anakin!"

I march down the stairs, leaving Obi-Wan scurrying to keep up with me. I take those steps damn near four at a time, and it's only magical interference that keeps me from toppling over. After a while Obi-Wan stops shouting for me to calm down, and just does his best not to fall behind.

He fails.

I burst back into the room, past the troopers left outside it, to find Luke still in his healing trance.

He's smiling, I notice, and go still for a moment. He's calm, at peace, and he's smiling.

I sit opposite him, remove my helmet again, and rest my hand on his shoulder. "Luke?"

No response.

I curse. Of course. I don't know the keyword to wake him from his healing trance—

" _Bractealis_ ," Obi-Wan says from the door. He's at Luke's side by the time my son wakes; Luke automatically leans into him.

I swallow tightly.

Luke stretches, uncrosses his legs and plants his feet back on the floor. "Did you get the evidence you wanted?" His gaze finds the papers—I flung them on the table.

I nod.

"I... understand now," I get out, suddenly aware of how hoarse my voice is. I didn't realise I was crying in my mad rush to get here, but now the tears are sticky and hot. "I believe you. I... know why you never came home."

Padmé's beautiful scrawl is still imprinted behind my eyes—as are those damning, damning words. _I think he wants to kill us, and take the throne for his own_.

Luke says, quietly but intensely, "I wanted to."

I want to cry.

But I won't.

No. I won't cry.

"So," Luke asks, "what now?"

I won't cry.

"Now," I tell him, "I make things right."

I grab his arm—careful not to hurt him—and not even his startled cry of "Papa!" makes me pause. The troopers outside have the nerve to try to slow me down.

"Out of my way!" They're yanked back like marionettes on a string.

"Papa..." Luke says, and even in the midst of my frenzy and my fervour I turn towards him like a flower towards the sun. "Your helmet..."

"I don't care," I declare. There are far, far more important things at stake now—and with my son at my side, vengeance as my sword, I will be able to look the world in the eye again.

"Then what are you—"

The ballroom doors bang open and the minstrels stop their music to stare. Good. Let them stare. They are witnessing the rise of a new king.

The greatest king this continent will ever see.

The minstrels evacuate the dais—good—and I make for it. This lacks so much of the grandeur Luke deserves, the official paperwork, the history and tradition and meaning behind every symbolic act, but I will bring Palpatine war. And I will use Alderaan to do it, if I have to.

They are no fans of the Emperor. They will support my son.

And I will not give them a choice.

"Vader," Luke hisses at me when we finally mount the dais, "Vader, what are you—"

"As a part of the treaty between our two kingdoms," I shout. The rest of the ballroom is _deathly_ silent. "And in the spirit of long partnership between them."

I stumble over my words—this is _Padmé's_ forte, _she_ should be here for this, not me—but it is of no consequence. So long as Luke is announced.

Once Luke is announced, once his _presence_ is known to the world, and to these irritating but influential Imperial diplomats I am forced to babysit, Palpatine _cannot_ make him disappear.

"We will unite in support of— and support and celebrate—"

Luke and Padmé were popular, and Palpatine's reign is still young—he still relies on the image of being their natural successor to get by.

Luke's return will destroy his claim, and then _I_ will destroy his _life_.

And...

"—the righting of an old wrong, the return of someone dearly missed."

_This is my son._

_My son will be king._

I knew that when I first held him. I knew that as I raised him. But for ten years, I never thought it would come to pass.

"I ask that here, now, you will recognise _my son_ —"

My eyes slide to Piett, to the other guards, to those _Imperial diplomats_ , whose lives rest on how they react to this news.

Their faces have drained of colour.

"—Prince Luke Naberrie of Naboo."

Their faces light up. And fall. Crease with confusion, with understanding, with a myriad of emotions that reveal exactly what they think about this.

How they know it will change _everything_.

We will travel with Luke back home. We will spread the word before Palpatine can suppress it. And when we arrive, when that slug inevitably tries to invalidate Luke's claim or cling to power despite the funeral bells ringing or even _kill him_ , I will reveal his treachery, and _I will slaughter him with all the mercy he deserves._

I am done living in the shadows.

My son will bring the light.

I raise Luke's arm to herald a new future, a new beginning, a new life.

"And," I finish victoriously, "that you support his ascension as king."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: ahhhhh so many thanks to [maedre13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maedre13) for [this lovely moodboard](https://maedre13.tumblr.com/post/617192063277154304/i-fell-in-love-with-spell-cleavers-au) she made :D

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [SW Big Bang: Ascension](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23997211) by Anonymous 




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